


Nâr

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Chocolate Box Treat, F/M, Married Couple, Orgasm Delay, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pomegranates, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 22:03:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5982313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finwë isn't a king in Míriel's garden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nâr

The pomegranate trees in Míriel's garden are heavy with fruits, large speckled-red globes which pull the low branches even further down. Finwë reopens his eyes and stares dazedly at those plump promises of delight right above his head, at the branches and the long pale green leaves. Golden light distils through them, scattering trembling flickers all over the grass, but it can't outdo the lustre of Míriel's hair, falling in a silvery cloud all around her naked body. 

“Míriel, please,” he says hoarsely, staring in mixed lust and adoration at her full, heavy breasts.

“Please what?” Míriel lilts, licking the ripe fruit in her right hand. She has bitten into it and pried it open, scattering its dark red seeds all over Finwë's chest and the grass at his sides.

Finwë lifts his arms to grab her, but Míriel halts him with a peremptory gesture of her left hand. 

“Keep your hands above your head,” she says, in a tone that admits no rebuttal.

Finwë sighs and lays his arms on the grass, clutching at tufts of it, but can't help entreating, “please, let me come.”

Míriel has only seen to her own pleasure thus far, rubbing herself against his mouth or thighs, fucking herself on his cock but always stopping before he himself could find any sort of gratification from the acts. Even now she sits on his shaft, which lies flat, squeezed against the muscles of his own stomach, throbbing with arousal to the point of aching. 

“Why should I, Your Highness?” Míriel jibes. “You are so busy in your new role, you hardly have time for your own wife.”

“I have duties to –” Finwë's voice breaks and his words turn into a groan as Míriel wriggles atop him. She's _so_ hot and _so_ slick, and she cants her hips so that her clit rubs vigorously against his stiff, needy flesh.

“That is not what you promised when you convinced me to follow you here.”

Finwë inhales erratically, trying to regain some semblance of control. “I am sorry. So very sorry,” Míriel drags herself over his whole length and his breath hitches again, “I – I will make it up to you, I promise, but please?”

Míriel cocks her head to one side, seemingly considering his request, and finally relents. She lays the open pomegranate on the grass and shifts back, lifting her weight from his erection, which springs up, leaking and eager. Finwë rejoices to be relieved of the pressure, and is even more ecstatic when Míriel grasps his shaft in hand and guides it inside her. 

She takes it all, sliding down on it to the root, and sits back on Finwë's thighs, grinding her ass against them. Her movements are fluid, her heat divine. 

Finwë dissolves in a mess of whimpers, of half-intelligible vows of love and devotion, but when she stops and withdraws just as he is on the brink of orgasm _again_ , he sobs, pulling so hard on the grass he almost rips it out of the soil. 

Míriel quickly sits on his shaft again, her folds hugging it in their maddeningly delicious hold.

“Míriel,” Finwë wails.

“Your Highness,” she returns, mimicking the formal tone of Palace dignitaries. She picks a few of the scattered seeds and presses them to his lips. Finwë opens his mouth, a bright flush on his pale cheeks, and takes them. Míriel trails her fingers on his lips, silently bidding him to lick them clean of the pomegranate's sticky juice. Finwë swirls his tongue all around them, and sucks on them, tasting the rich, slightly sour flavour of the fruits.

Once they are clean, Míriel brings them to her own clit, rubbing it slowly, squirming on his cock, her drenched quim pulsating around it. But she's not heartless. After a time she clenches her muscles around his shaft, and swirls the fingers of her left hand on his cockhead, tracing the ridge and tickling the very damp slit. Finwë tips his head back, his eyes losing focus.

Once again he melts under Míriel's caresses, his pleasure soaring until, at last, they come together.

**Author's Note:**

> Nâr means pomegranate in Persian, and also fire (from Arabic).


End file.
